


A Light in the Dark

by AngeDeLumiere



Series: Once Upon A Time [3]
Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: M/M, fairytale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:01:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4796978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeDeLumiere/pseuds/AngeDeLumiere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of the little matchstick boy. It's the traditional story with a twist at the end.</p><p>Part of backtofive's fairytale challenge :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Light in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. This was written rather quickly for backtofive's Once Upon a Time collection. 
> 
> It's supposed to be fluff, but let's be real. Everyone knows that I am not the best at fluff!

The snow fell quickly from the white sky, dripping like rain, slipping between the cracks of the thatched roofs, running down the stone buildings, and pooling on the cobbled streets. It was Christmas, and though the the small houses were adorned with bright red bows, hold wrapped wreaths, and fragrant garland, the people of the town were not so festive. They are dressed in drab blacks and browns, their shoulders hunched as they jostled their way through the town square. 

There was no laughter no Christmas joy. The decorations were a merry facade for the children, distracting them from the brutal winter winds that burned their cheeks and swept snow into their homes. The summer months ha been fraught with drought. The farmers’ harvest barely yielded a crop, and the butcher’s cows were too lean. Skinny cows cold not produce enough milk to meet the holiday demand. Luxuries like cheese and better were forsworn. This year, the Christmas feasts were replaced by meager meals with just enough food to keep families from starving. 

A skeletal lad sat on the corner of the market, a few small boxes in his hand. His gloves had large holes in them, exposing the blue tips of his fingers. He was selling matches. “Matches!” he called out, his voice hollow and soft. His large eyes that once danced like a candle’s flame were now dull and listless. HIs cheeks were sunken in much like an old man’s, and the tender skin was raw from the winter wind. “One for a penny!”

He held a box aloft, “Matches!”

He called to the passersby, his singsong voice––the voice of a boy growing in a man––echoed like a lark’s aria. The busy people did not hear him, did not see him in their haste. They went about their business, coats dawn tightly around them in a futile attempt to lessen the wind’s sting. 

The boy sighed dismally. He knew that he could not retuned home before he had sold all of his wares. His father was a cruel man, who hated the boy because he looked so much like his dead mother. He had her chatoyant eyes and soft hair. It was his fault that she was dead, as his father liked to remind him daily. She had died in childbirth, a trail of red streaming from between her legs, tying her to the screaming infant. 

“Matches!” he called again, his voice softer still. He was so hungry. So hungry that he no longer felt the sharp pains in his stomach. He had not eaten since the previous morning when his father, still drunk from a night at the tavern, had given him a small bowl of porridge. It was cold, but the boy was convinced that Goldielock’s herself had not tasted a better meal while in the bear’s cottage. 

The snow was falling down more quickly now, the flakes fat and frozen. Darkness was slowly blanketing the town. The boy watched the lamplighters come from within the warm buildings, their windows glowing like beacons in the dark night. He held out the boxes, once again calling, “Matches!” in hopes that one might take pity on a bedraggled boy. Alas, he was little more than a shadow, invisible to the barrel chested men who went about their business. It was Christmas Eve, and they wanted to finish their rounds quickly so that they might return home to their families. 

The boy sighed, his arms dropping to his sides. The wind had picked up, its sting morphing into a wolf’s bite that blistered his skin. Pulling his threadbare coat around him, the boy left the stack of crates that he was sitting on. His father would be back at the tavern, drinking himself into an early grave so that he might join his beloved wife in the afterlife. He would not miss the boy. 

It was almost too dark to see, but the boy knew the back alleys of the town well enough to navigate the narrow twist and turns in the inky black. Not too far away, in a trash alley behind the slums, was a small wall with a deeply set corner that he would find shelter from the wind. The boy slumped against the wall, jarring his body to keep him awake. He knew that he could not sleep in the cold, no matter how warm his chest seemed. In a few hours, the drunkards would stumble out of the taverns back to their waiting families. In their alcoholic stupors they would buy his matches as last minute Christmas gifts for their wives. 

The boy pulled one match out of a box. A drunken idiot would never know if he was one match short. The flickering light would keep him awake and warm in the dark night. The boy struck the match against the stone wall with a sharp flick of his wrist. The wood cracked and hissed as the match sprang to life. A warm orange glow lit up the little hollow like a fairy’s glow, like the wish of a child. It emitted a heat that the boy had not though possible, warming his red cheeks and ––

“Hullo?” a voice no louder than a stream’s gurgle broke through the darkness. The boy was so startled that he dropped the match into a small snow bank that was slowly beginning to grown just outside the mouth of the alley. “Who is there?”

The world had plunged back into complete blackness, forcing the boy to blink several eyes. Slowly and then all at once, his eyes adjusted to the black fog. There was the edge of the alleyway, so close that the boy could reach out and touch him, was a child. 

“Hello, little one,” his own voice suddenly seemed much deeper that the child’s mellifluous voice that was as high as an angel’s song. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out another match to light. The boy reeled back once more in surprise when the light illuminated the child’s face. 

He had never seen anything so beautiful. 

The boy was five or six, much too young to be wandering the inky winter’s night alone. He had a coat and a long scarf that drug the ground behind him, soaking up the dirty snow like a sponge. What struck the boy most of all was his hair. It shone like spun gold, catching the dancing light of the match only to glow like a halo, as if the child emitted his own light. His face was blood red from the cold, the skin on his cheeks and nose peeling as the wind bit into him. Even still, his face was cherubic and enthralling. The boy felt like he was looking at the pearly gates of Heaven. 

“What are you doing out here?” the boy asked this magnificent child. “It’s late. You should be at home with your family.” That was where the boy would be if he had a loving family to go to. 

The boy shook his head. Gloveless fingers pointed behind him out to the street. “I saw you selling sumth’n,” he chirped. “And you left. So I follo’d you.”

“You’re mother is worried about you,” the boy made, determined to bring the child back to his family. Christmas Eve was not a time to be separated from loved ones, alone in the cold. This child deserved better than that. 

The child shook his head. “I don’t haff a mommy. M’name’s Akihito, by the way.”

“Akihito?” the boy repeated. The match had burned to the tips of his fingers. The boy dropped it onto the ground, closing his eyes and relishing the hissing sound as the flame was smothered by the snow. When he opened his golden eyes, Akihito was staring at him curiously. “Where are your parents? Your family?” the boy asked, hoping to make the boy look away.

Akihito shrugged as he tucked his hands into his armpits. “The cemefairy,” he told the boy, his eyes still glued to his face. “Whass your name?”

“Asami,” the boy answered the child. “My name is Asami.”

The moon was high above the alley now, it’s white light blending in with the fast falling snow. By now, Asami did not need the matches to see. Akihito kept staring at him, as if he could see past the soot of the chimneys that Asami cleaned and the skeletal cheeks that made him afraid to look a mirror. A small hand, frigid to the touch, gently cupped one of those horrific cheeks. Asami flinched. He had not been touched by another human in so long. Even his father’s blows came from a log. To be touched by one so unassuming by Akihito terrified him more than the Krampus that he was sure was coming for him one of these days. 

“You’re cold,” Akihito pulled his hand back to tuck under his armpit once more. 

“Come here,” Asami held his arms out to the small child. With the trust of a saint, Akihito tottered into his embrace. Leaving against the frozen stone wall, Asami tucked the boy under his arm and then pulled off his shabby gloves. “Put these one,” he told the shivering boy. 

The child dutifully slid his hands into the large gloves. His small hands barely filled the palms of the woven gloves so Asami curled the fingers into a ball which he had the child grasp. Akihito’s face lit up with a toothy grin and in that moment, Asami wished he was naive enough to believe in fairies. As Akihito snuggle into his chest, he asked Asami, “Why’d you let the fire go away?”

Asami smiled over the child’s head. “It’s not a fire. It’s a match,” he explained. 

Akihito’s hazel eyes blinked owlishly. “Match?” he repeated, caterpillar eyebrows furrowed. “Match,” he said again, testing the funny word on his tongue. He smiled suddenly ebullient, and declared loudly that he had mastered the word. “Match!”

“Yes,” Asami’s bare hand reached into his coat pocket. He pinched another long match. “Watch,” he whispered to the giggling child who clapped his hands in anticipation. He struck that match against the wall, and fire exploded from its tip. 

“Whoa,” Akihito gasped in awe. Gloved fists were held near the light, basking in it like it was a roaring fire. “I’ve never seen’t before,” he whispered. 

Asami frowned. “You’ve never been near a fire?”

The blond shook his head. “Nope,” he popped the P. “Just seen it through windows.”

“You can’t touch it,” Asami held it farther away from the eager boy. “It will burn you.”

“Burn?” Akihito repeated another new word. 

Asami sighed. “It will hurt you, Akihito,” he said seriously. The little boy squealed in fright, drawing farther into Asami’s arm, trusting him implicitly like only a child could. “We can look at fire, but we can’t touch it. Do you understand?” Asami did not know where this bubbling child, so innocent and otherworldly had come from, but he felt the need to protect him. Suddenly, Asami felt as though he was born specifically to care for this pure child on Christmas Eve, and until eternity had ended. He had never seen the boy before, for he was sure he would have remembered sunlight spun into hair, but understood the gravity of his charge and the implications of his acceptance. He would be bound to this boy until he was a man, until he was able to care for himself. 

“Look!” Akihito cried with delight, breaking Asami from his thoughts. “It’s moving!”

The wind was starting to pick up. It tore at the match, trying to snuff out its life. The orange fire struggled to survive winter’s onslaught. And as quickly as the flame began to dance, it flickered and died. Akihito shrieked as the darkness surrounded the two once more. “Don’t be afraid,” Asami told him quietly. He plucked out another match. “I’ve got more.”

“I dun’t like the dark,” Akihito confessed. Asami could hear him frowning and fumbled for the match, wanting to see the impish pout that the boy was undoubtedly wearing. “It’s scary.”

“Well, here we go,” Asami tried to fight off a shiver as a particularly brutal gust of wind cut through his thin clothes. He held up another match. His fingers squeezed it so tightly that for a moment, he could feel them again. The feeling quickly faded as numbness swept over him again. He would need to leave soon, to try to sell the rest of the matchboxes. Then, he could take Akihito home and get him a proper meal. His home was small, but it had a gigantic hearth. Asami knew that the little child would be enthralled by a fire as tall as he was. 

“Can I light it?” Akihito’s lilting voice asked. 

Asami immediately dropped the match into the boy’s unfurled hand. “Of course, Akihito,” he said. “Do you know how?”

The child nodded. Fisting the match like a stick, Akihito swiped it clumsily across the wall. After a few tries, the match sizzled and the ignited. The boy squealed, but did not drop it like Asami expected. He held it tightly, like he believed that if he clutched the match tight enough, that the wind could not blow it out. 

“Do you see?” he whispered in delighted awe to Asami. “Inside the match?”

Not quite the correct terminology but Asami did not feel the need to correct the boy. He obligingly looked into the flame in order to make Akihito happy. His jaw dropped low when he saw a figure swaying side to side inside the match’s light. It was a woman with long black hair and sparkling golden eyes. She twirled and laughed around a Christmas tree, a small bump on her belly. He was staring at his mother on this night, fifteen years ago. She looked so happy and vivacious as she stroked her swollen belly. It seemed impossible that in a few short months, she would be dead. 

A strong gust of wind snuffed out the light. “No!” Asami cried thoughtlessly. He lunged forward, grabbing at the shadows where his mother had been. She had seemed so real, and so close. He thought that he might be able to touch her. That she might speak to him for just a moment. 

His hand closed around empty air. Asami leaned back, heartbroken and blinking tears away as his rational mind took over. His mother was dead. Little Akihito could bring her back with a match. No, hypothermia was setting in and make him hallucinate. Never mind that his chest was warmer than it had been all night as Akihito fished in his jacket pocket. It was the cold, nothing more. 

“Here!” Akihito proudly held aloft another match. Asami did not even try to stop him from lighting it. After all, it was one matchbox. Asami could sell the other soon to the drunk men. One matchbox would not keep them from starving and the flame brought Akihito such joy. 

The bright orange light immediately lit up the small alley. Asami blinked his eyes, not sure if he wanted to risk staring into the light a second time. Then Akihito tapped his cheek with his small hand and Asami opened his golden eyes. His mother was not dancing. Now it was Asami as a child, only three, as he sat beside a towering Christmas tree. His grandmother sat in a rocking chair behind him, knitting as she sang old carols that most had forgotten. Asami smiled at the memory. 

“She used to make the best pheasant,” he told Akihito. The little boy nodded as if he understood what Asami was telling him. “Every Christmas Eve,” Asami talked as an excuse to relive the memories the little boy was showing him. “She would knit a stocking for me to hang beside the fire. Santa came to good little boys and girls back then.”

Santa had not been back in a long time. Not since his grandmother died. He used to bring sweet oranges and little trinkets for him to play with. Now no stockings were hung. No Christmas pheasant was cooked. His father spent the night cavorting with his friends and Asami sold matches to buy a small breakfast the next day. 

Eventually the match burned out, and rather than wait for Asami to ask him to, Akihito immediately pulled out another match. Every time Akihito lit a match, a new scene unfurled before Asami’s eyes. He did not ask Akihito how he had acquired this talent, or what sort of fae-beast he was. Asami was content to relive the happy moments of his life, the few and far between moments when he had known love and laughter. For the first time in years, Asami remembered what it was like to be happy on Christmas. Akihito was just as enthralled with the memories as Asami was. He listened to the stories with rapt attention, giggling and making faces as Asami’s words gave life to the memories. 

Just before dawn, the warmth that had been in Asami’s chest spread throughout his body. He shut his eyes, smiling. The sun must have been shining on him, for a golden light consumed him. Akihito’s weight on his chest was comforting, and as he slipped into a deep sleep, his last thought that it was nice to be warm. 

The next morning, he was found by a clergyman on his way to the orphanage. The boy had died in the night. He was huddled into a small corner, his thin jacket spread over him like a blanket. The snow had fallen all around him, until it was nearly reaching his knees that had been pulled against his chest. A crowd gathered to mourn the boy that they had all ignored. And stumbling home from a tavern was the boy’s father. The distraught man collapsed on the ground when he saw his boy lying dead in the snow, forgotten by everyone on the festive night. Years later, the town still whispered of the father’s wails and they made sure to check in the crevices for lost children and those in need who deserved a warm meal on Christmas Eve. The boy who died smiling was gone, but not forgotten. 

*

“Good morning, Asami,” a light voice called to him from the darkness. 

Morning? No. Asami had just closed his eyes to rest them from the bright light of the tiny match. Wrenching his eyes open, Asami instantly focused on the young boy who was sitting beside him. No longer crouching the corner of a back alley, he was lying supine in a green field. Sitting up so quickly that Akihito had to scurry back to not be hit by Asami’s flailing arms, the golden eyed boy looked around wildly. 

He was not in his home town anymore. In fact, he was somewhere he had never been before. He was dressed in light linen clothing with no jacket or no shoes. But when he looked around, all he could see was rolling green fields and bright flowers. In the distance, he could hear laughter and from the corner of his eyes, he saw shades of people frolicking in the tall grass. He most certainly not alone in this strange summer world where he did not need warm clothing. 

“Akihito?” Asami turned back to the simpering child, who was older than Asami remembered him being. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

Asami did not need his question answered. He had died during the night, as the snow fell quickly. The cold had seeped into his skin, deep into his body, past his bones until it reached it heart where it had snuffed out his life like the wind snuffed out a match. 

Akihito’s small hand touched Asami’s rapidly beating heart. He was still breathing though, and still conscious. Perhaps, this was not death after all but some fairy world beyond the trees. The boy shook his head, pushing against Asami’s warm chest. Gone was the gap tooth grin and the stunned speech, replaced by large hazel eyes and impish smirk “You died.”

Asami drew a shaky breath. If he was not mistaken, the boy was growing before his very eyes. Soon, Akihito would look like he was Asami’s age. “I was afraid of that.”

“Akihito,” a shadow fell across the two boys. Akihito flushed brightly but did not pull his hand off Asami’s chest, while said boy rose up onto his elbows. A tall woman with hair that glowed like the sun loomed sternly over them. She was beautiful, more goddess than woman, but there was no reproach in her eyes. “Who is this?”

Akihito looked between Death and Asami. She had come to collect the boy’s soul just before dawn on Christmas morning, only to find her son curled up in his arms. Akihito had a penchant for taking in stray animals, but never had he become so attached to a human soul. The imp grinned at his mother. “He’s mine, Momma,” he told her proudly. 

“My Asami.” 

Death smirked. “And how is he yours?”

Akihito flushed as he glanced at the stunned Asami. “I’ve been taking care of him for a long time! Ever since he was born, almost!” he smiled, unabashed by his actions. “I’ve seen his whole life, and I knew that it was time for him to die. So I stayed with him until you came to pick up his soul. I just had to follow his light.”

Death smiled the wide, indulgent smile of a mother. “It seems my son has decided to take you as his own, Asami,” she told the speechless boy on the ground. “And once Akihito has set his mind to something, there is nothing I can do to change it. Take good care of my son, Asami.” With that, Death turned on her heel and left the two boys alone. Asami lay on the ground for a moment, speechless as he tried to process his mortality and his guardian angel of death that had watched over him his entire life. 

He let Akihito pull him to his feet. “Why me?” Asami licked his lips, wetting them. Finally, he was able to speak. “Why did you choose me?” What had he done to inspire such devotion from Akihito? 

Akihito put his hand over Asami’s heart once more. “Because I love you, and you are mine.”

Asami looked at the little death, the boy who could kill with a single touch or return life to the dead. When Akihito smiled back at the match seller, Asami could not help the hope that flared in his chest. Somehow, Akihito had found him, and rather than let Asami protect him, had taken the boy in. He had a home now, with a family. And as Akihito took his hand, Asami knew that he had a family at last. Someone to love and to love him in return.

And Akihito and Asami lived happily ever after.


End file.
